


Bubbles

by dreamlittleyo



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Fluff, Gen, Pre-Canon, Weechesters, Wordcount: 100-1.000, Wordcount: 500-1.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-17
Updated: 2011-04-17
Packaged: 2017-10-18 05:18:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/185457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamlittleyo/pseuds/dreamlittleyo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Something with bubbles. The kind that kids blow on nice days. Weechesters with a day off, with some Papa Winchester thrown in.<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	Bubbles

It's Spring in Des Moines, bright and green with the barest hint of chill, and John is in town the week Sammy's classmate Jeremy has his eighth birthday party. When Sam comes home with the invitation clutched in his chubby little hand, John thinks ' _Why the hell not?_ '

Dean complains the entire drive to the party about how it's not fair, how Sammy _always_ gets to do the fun stuff. It's all overdramatic glowers and rolling eyes and Sammy sitting smug in the back seat the whole way there.

Dean stops whining the second Sam disappears into the house, roughly wrapped present tucked under one arm. When John cuts a glance over to his eldest in the passenger seat, Dean meets him with a conniving smirk. John winks at him and pulls the car away from the curb.

They don't drive far—just to the hardware store down the street, to keep busy and pick up some supplies and maybe dawdle as they count down the time until they can pick Sammy up again.

Sam's got something in his hand when he gets back in the car. Looks like a small plastic bottle, bright and yellow, but he won't say what it is or let John look at it. John supposes he could worry, but Sam leans over the front seat and cups a hand around Dean's ear to whisper, hushed and conspiratorial.

"Yeah, that's cool," says Dean, and his grin is as much for John as it is for Sammy.

"How was the party, kiddo?" John asks, waiting for the sound of a locking belt buckle before he merges back into traffic. He starts for home, his eyes glancing up towards the rearview mirror.

"Good," says Sammy, fidgeting with the bright plastic in his hands. "We played hide and seek, and no one could find me. I got a prize."

"Was there good food?" asks Dean, and John chuckles. Dean has priorities, after all.

"The cake was made out of _ice cream_ ," says Sam, and the words are hushed awe, like he still doesn't quite believe it. Dean whistles to show how impressed he is, and Sam chatters about the party straight through the rest of the drive.

It's not until later that night that John learns what Sammy's mysterious prize is. After dinner—canned soup and cheese sandwiches—Sammy grabs Dean by the hand and drags him out into the scraggly yard behind their first-floor apartment.

John grabs up the disarray of dishes and dumps them unceremoniously in the sink, watching through the smudgy window above the counter as Sam twists the lid off of what is definitely a small, plastic bottle. He fidgets with it a little, pulls something out of it, and blows so hard his cheeks puff out.

Bubbles, John realizes, though Sammy's attempt falls a little short of success. Mostly he just sends soap spraying, and John can tell from the look on Dean's face that his eldest is trying not to laugh. Sammy tries again, again without success, and then a third time and gets a small, sad string of bubbles. Dean doesn't laugh once, and John opens the window to let the breeze and the noise in as Sam holds out the bottle and plastic stick for his brother to take.

"You do it," Sammy says, and then watches rapt as Dean dips the stick back into the soap and pulls it out to blow a perfect stream of fist-sized bubbles.

"The trick is to move slowly," Dean explains, matter of fact like he's giving instructions on something serious and important. "You don't want the soap to pop before you start blowing."

When Sam tries again he gets better results, but he still hands everything back to Dean and stubbornly commands, "Do it more." He seems to be content chasing the larger bubbles around the yard in an effort to pop each and every one.

Normally John would leave the dishes in the sink, let them pile up because he's got more important things to do.

Today, they're the perfect excuse. He fills the sink with hot water and gets to work, washing each dish with slow, unnecessary care as he listens to the laughter carried in on the wind.


End file.
